


Point of Aim

by snarechan



Series: Firearm Ideology [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Future, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, M/M, Parallel Universes, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-08 06:42:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17976311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarechan/pseuds/snarechan
Summary: (Natural) Point of Aim:verb1. is a shooting skill where the shooter minimizes the effects of body movement on the firearm's impact point.noun2. America and his need to figure out the flow of things.





	Point of Aim

**Author's Note:**

> While going through my backlogs I stumbled across this series in my WIPs folder; a handful of parts have been waiting for me to remember of their existence. After going back through them it's been rather exciting and I can't wait to bring the rest of this series to light!
> 
> On top of that, I completely forgot I'd already sent this particular nugget to be beta read! It's so old that credit must actually go to Keppiehed and her team, as they were kind enough to go over this story at the time. Despite re-writing it a couple times and being looked over by not one, but TWO beta readers, there may still be some errors. Please let me know if I have to update something!
> 
> I'd also like to credit [resident-longwinded-anon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/resident_longwinded_anon) and their [challenge meme](http://resident-longwinded-anon.tumblr.com/post/99087361601/its-fairly-self-explanatory-i-think-i-was) that I found (specifically the prompt parallel universes/war). To reiterate for anyone new, there's no real "ending" planned, although there will be an order of events centered on how terrible an idea it might be like if these two were in a situation to work together in a semi-distant future setting.

America was flat on his back and didn't remember why. Russia kneeled over him, although he didn't know why he was here, either. He still managed to tower over America. His upper torso blocked most of the rain from falling on him, but a few drops landed on America's face.

The other nation was talking. The words faded in and out, but it sounded like something along the lines of America being stupid and an idiot and a reckless, stupid idiot. That wasn't an uncommon occurrence, although he lacked the capacity to understand what he'd done to deserve it this time. He tried to ask for clarification as Russia removed his jacket.

Such a gesture seemed generous of him, considering how chilled America felt, except the moment Russia wrapped him in it his entire body locked up. Every muscle and nerve-ending spasmed as if America was being jabbed with thousands of tiny needles. He gasped.

America thought he was bundled up rather tight just to ward off the cold, and his struggles were halted when Russia hefted him in his arms. The movement jarred something. At least he wasn't reprimanded when he wrapped an arm around Russia's neck for support; America's grip was no doubt uncomfortably intense.

"No, put me down. You need both hands free," America stuttered. He failed to recall why such a concept was important, but the matter had to be spoken. Giving no words of comfort or warning in reply, Russia stood up with America in tow  
  
  
  
  
And he's dropped on something a smidgen softer than dirt – maybe a cot or operating table. America squinted at the brightness of the overhead lights. The one shining closest was a flashlight in his brother's hand. Canada's face came into view behind the beam of light.

"Mattie?" he asked. The end of his name was a little slurred as America's coordination remained shot to hell. "Mattie, what're you doing here? You…you're s'pposed to be at the medical encampment." This point stood out to him as Most Important because his brother shouldn't be here on the front lines.

Not that he was concerned for his safety. Canada could hold his own, especially with a sniper rifle in his hands, but he'd been adamant against the war since the beginning. He was insistent on offering health supplies and emergency field units, and nothing else. It sat wrong with America that his brother would be forced into the fighting.

"He's losing too much blood. He might have _already_ lost too much blood," Canada said, ignoring him and seeming to direct his conversation to America's side instead.

A rush of activity flurried around him, of fabric tearing and metal scraping, but wasn’t as pressing as getting through to Canada. America persisted, "Mattie. _Mattie._ You need to leave. I promised I wouldn't make you a part of—"

"Will that be enough?" A moment, and then America recognized Russia talking. His accent, persistently thick around the edges while speaking English, was nearly unmistakable.

"If I inject him with more… Just hold Alfred down."

Russia entered America's field of vision when he stood across from Canada. Russia's bulk pressed down on America's front, hands braced on his shoulders. Before he could ask what the other country was doing his world was on fire _._ America yelled and bucked and writhed. Anything to distance himself from the pain he didn't understand. He felt Russia put his full power behind holding him in place, but America still rose a good several inches.

Shouting to be heard over America's screaming, Canada ordered, "You need to keep him still!"

Russia grunted, maybe in response, or in strain. No matter how firm his hold, he couldn't keep America from moving. Russia reared back somewhat and, muttering what might have been an apology, raised a fist. He sucker punched America square in the jaw.  
  
  
  
  
It was quiet.

Past his eyelids America identified the insistent beeping of health monitors, alongside the scrape of someone writing. Yawning, he couldn't feign sleep anymore and peeked open both eyes. The room was dimly lit, though there were no window flaps to the outside. He blinked several times, adjusting to the waking world.

Nearby, Canada continued marking notes on his tablet, face set in a scowl. Without glancing up he asked, "How are you feeling?"

There were too many solid replies to pick from, so America clicked his tongue and went for the first comment that came to mind. "Like a bucket full of sunshine."

Canada frowned harder, not that America should have expected differently. Whenever he found himself in a hospital bed or medical tent, this sort of event tended to go in one direction. His brother would inquire how he was doing, expecting America to be serious about the situation, and America would be anything but to try and get him to relax. He hated making his family worry, but they could never seem to meet in the middle.

Canada finished his observations and set the stylus in its little clip. His twin held the tablet in both hands in front of him. "What do you remember?"

The lingering sting on his face proved that Russia's left-hook wasn't some drug-induced hallucination. He still felt a little hazy, and couldn't be sure if his memory was spotty due to medication or not. Whatever they'd pumped him full of had dulled his concerns, of _that_ he was sure. And honestly that was all he recalled and America said as much. About the blanks in his memory, not how high he was. Doubtless Canada could already guess the latter.

"You stepped on a landmine," Canada informed him, point-in-fact.

America scoffed. "A _landmine?_ Who even uses those anymore?"

"Nobody, except decades-old combatants. I'd surmise it was leftover from a previous engagement and you just have shit for luck."

He snorted again, in amusement. Canada didn't curse often, which should have clued him in to the fact that something was far from all right, but later he'd blame the drugs. They really were doing a number on his system. "So Doc, will I ever play the violin?"

Canada hesitated. His eyes betrayed him and he glanced further down America's body. "The violin, yes."

Swallowing past his dry and itchy throat, America followed his gaze. All his arms and fingers were accounted for, albeit scraped; his torso, stomach… But reaching his hips America spotted the dip where none should be. From halfway past his thigh on his left leg it was just. Missing.

"You are _not_ sending me home over this," were America's words after the discovery. His hands gripped the sheets in fistfuls.

"And you are mistaken if you think for one minute I'm vouching for your combat readiness. Don't assume any of your officials will sign off on it, either," Canada said. By his tone and immediate response it was apparent he'd expected this confrontation and prepared for it.

"Well, no way am I leaving my people alone out there!"

"How do you figure you're any good to them in your condition?" Canada asked, holding nothing back. "This is going to take months to heal, never mind the mental and physical strain it'll put on you! You can't possibly fight out in the field and fight to recover at the same time."

America gaped, readying a response, but Canada steamrolled over his chances to protest. "Our technology has come a long way, but we still can't explain a man growing back an _entire leg._ It's bad enough you exposed yourself with that stunt involving the tank and your super strength—"

"Who fucking told you?" America demanded, before backpedaling. "You know what? Doesn't even matter. I made a tactical decision that was mandatory to our success and I stand by it. Nobody reported a single thing, anyway," he yelled. America's volume control was questionable under normal circumstances, but here he made a point to enunciate loud and clear, "That's not even the point! We need to think of something because the only way you're getting me to leave is in a body bag."

"You did die! _Twice_." They were both shouting, now. Canada in particular was becoming red in the face. "You were brain-dead for fifteen minutes, Al. _Fifteen. Minutes._ Then the second attempt to resuscitate you almost failed. Do you have any idea how hard it was? You're like giving C.P.R. to a brick wall!"

"Children, children!" Both siblings turned towards the tent flap to see Russia peek his head inside. "Must I separate you two?"

Canada pinched the bridge of his nose and tilted his head, reminiscent of England more so than France in that moment. He conducted a short breathing exercise, the tactic grating on America's every last nerve. Turning his head away from either nation instead, America glared holes in the tent wall since he couldn't simply get up and leave.

"Sulk all you want," his brother said, albeit gentle, as if the softness of his voice came close to softening the blow, "but I can't in good conscious let you back out there." _So suck it up_ went unsaid, and America ground his teeth until Canada left.

An extended silence settled in Canada's wake. America almost mistook that he was left completely alone until Russia's approaching footsteps. He pulled up a chair, it scraping on the ground. Stubbornness lost to curiosity as America turned his head to regard him; Russia looked to be in a borrowed uniform, generic and lacking most of his medals.

"How long was I out for?" America asked, never good at enduring extended bouts of silence. Not to mention he and Canada hadn't delved into the nitty-gritty details of his stay before letting into each other.

"Two weeks," Russia said, elaborating at America's widening stare. "There were…complications, but you are awake now. That is a good indicator, yes?"

 _Back in the day I could've walked this off, easy._ Too late he realized the pun and was relieved he hadn't spoken it aloud. America did mention, "Yeah, well. Not good enough for Mattie, I guess."

Russia's expression was schooled in that surreal sort of way he was renowned for. America wasn't sure what to make of it when conjoined with his words: "I suppose his concerns are not without merit."

"But shipping me back home? Are you kidding me? Not when we're—" He cut himself off, not wanting to broach the subject of how unstable the war effort was. Their troops weren't exactly losing, but neither were they winning any high ground. Every day felt like a tipping point. America pressed, "I'm not _ready_. There's still so much left to do, ya know?"

"I know." Russia sounded sincere, although the other country had no way of comprehending what it was he thought he knew. He disentangled America's fingers from ripping the bed sheet in his hands, uncurling his fingers one-by-one, and that was when he noticed the wrappings on Russia's own hand. America's shoulders slumped, put enough at ease to drop the tension that'd built up from his exchange with Canada.  
  
  
  
  
America didn't remember falling asleep. One moment he's discussing his health and the next he's staring at an empty chair. People constantly moved in and out of his tent, Russia one of his more consistent visitors, but America turned his head and saw Canada at the foot of his cot. He'd finished his inspection and re-wrapping America's wound if his brother's straightening the bedcovering was any indication.

They hadn't spoken since their initial exchange. America was more often associated with stubbornness, but Canada could be just as headstrong when he was dead-set on something.

"Where is everyone?" he asked.

"I wouldn't rightly know. There were rumors of movement close by and most of the troops were ordered to investigate. I really don't know more," Canada said. He seemed prepared to leave it at that, readying his equipment.

When he got to the tent flap America asked, "So, you gonna cough up my release forms yet?"

Without missing a beat, his brother replied off-handedly, "I'll forward your honorable discharge recommendation as soon as there's a break in the fighting."  
  
  
  
  
Nobody told him as much, but the war must have picked up in earnest. Outside his room he heard soldiers and medical personnel rushing around, barking orders to each other. Regardless of America's official-not-official status as a grunt he was given private accommodations separate from the other units, but he wasn’t oblivious. He could hear the constant creak of gurneys rolling by and cries of agony.

A month of this left him restless. There was no one to talk to besides Canada, and his terms of engagement were on par with the opposition right now. His brother also lowered his dosages. Probably out of conjoined spite and dwindling supplies.

His isolation and discomfort were to blame for him waking up cranky and disorientated. He saw a head of light-colored hair, too soft to match his or Canada's bright gold. He mumbled, "Hey, Handsome," and blinked to clear his vision, clouded with sleep, to realize it wasn’t Russia standing there. "Oh. You're not— I mean, you're _pretty_ , but you're not who…"

The woman continued to stare at him impassively. She gave America the courtesy of digging a hole for himself before interrupting. "General Braginsky said you get yourself into trouble. Often."

"He sent you?" The question was bitter sounding and America frankly didn't care. He _was_ bitter. With a babysitter like Canada it wasn't as if he needed another pair of eyes on him. "What, did he think I was going to escape by the skin of my teeth? As if."

To her credit, the woman was undaunted by his crass attitude. "He claimed you are liable to crawl out with your bare hands, but now I see you are better at running off with your mouth."

"Cute," America said. And if he was being honest, the play on words was a good one.

"You thought I was handsome?"

Squinting at her, America vied for a comeback when he was struck with recognition. Without her military assigned gear and full-fledged uniform she looked a little different than when he'd seen her exiting Russia's tank. "I've met you before! You're Russ…kie's subordinate."

"I was," she said, and didn't need to elaborate. Her arm was in a sling. The limb didn't appear to need a cast, but it was heavily wrapped and secured against her chest. It would appear America had an impromptu roommate, if only temporary.   
  
  
  
  
Vera, the name of the Russian soldier, and America played cards to whittle away the time. The first couple of meetings were spent in awkward silence. She'd sketch one-handed while America tried to bore holes through the tent material. Finally he remembered the deck stashed in his rucksack, one of the few personal effects he'd permitted himself. He figured Vera must be desperate for entertainment, too. Her expression was only fiercer when she tried to draw.

"So what are we playing? As long as it's not twenty-one pickup I'm set for anything." America shuffled the deck; his fingers weren't as quick and precise at cutting the cards, but coordination aside he was unable to resist a couple of his fancier tricks. America would never brag, but Las Vegas kept him pretty competitive. He did try to play fair, unless he was up against England and then he pulled out every stop to show him up.

"Are you familiar with _Durak_?" she asked. Russia had only been too delighted to teach him the rules way back when, and beat America several times during their attempts. He nodded and separated everything accordingly. The deck was reduced to thirty-six cards and he dealt them a hand of six each.

"So when did you hurt your arm?" America wheedled. He didn't do subtle, nosing for details about the war. He might as well be in solitary confinement for all the news he received in here as of late and he was desperate to hear about anything.

"Three days ago, at the Eastern conjunction. Another ambush," Vera said. Her sneer was wide and robust, contorting her entire face. "Their tactics, they make me sick. The General, he—" She cut herself off just as she was getting to the juicy part.

"How, uh, was he doing? Out there, I mean."

"My superior, he is as he always is." America refrained from pulling a face as he finished setting up the playing field. He took the initiative and assumed the 'attacker' position, flipping over the first card. After a few turns Vera said, "My brothers, I have two of them. They are Army, too."

Looking up from his hand, America kept himself in check for once. She was going somewhere with this train of conversation, but he wasn't sure where. "I am oldest, you see. It is my responsibility to look after them. Boys are reckless, stupid idiots," she said, matter-of-fact.

America had to laugh, maybe for the first time since he'd been stuck in this bed. He understood that statement as truth from personal experience. "So I've heard."

"But it is hard to do that from here. I am useless as I am now," Vera admitted, glaring accusingly at her arm. "The General, he promised to watch over my boys in my stead. In return, I watch his boy."

"Hey now, I'm not so little," America said. He smiled without meaning to, the expression unfaltering at her intense frown.

"You ask if General Braginsky sent me? He did not, and does not know that I am here. I do this because he is helping my family, but there is no one helping _him_. You do well to assist him, but I hear rumors of you leaving? Make it not so."

His amputated leg had protests to the contrary. Covered in all the sheets and blankets it was difficult to tell the limb was missing, thankfully, given his company. And he didn't broach the topic now, simply saying, "You think I haven't been trying?"

"I think you are stuck here with nothing better to do than formulate a solution. So consider harder. Otherwise you are already the fool," she said, placing down a card. "With how often the General spoke so highly of you, I did not consider him a befriender of fools."

"Are we talking about the same guy here?"

"You cannot leave," Vera repeated, forgoing his question. "Do you understand?"

America diverted his gaze and stared at his hand of cards, then the spread on his bed. The game had just begun and already he could tell he wasn't going to win this round.  
  
  
  
  
He stared at the blank sheet of paper in front of him. The method wasn't common these days, but America was nothing if not sentimental. He'd begged and puppy-dog-eyed Vera until she'd grown fed up enough to provide him with one of her sheets of drawing paper.

The old technique would come in handy if he could just formulate the right words. He had been tapping a staccato with his red, white, and blue striped pen for ten minutes trying to jar his thoughts into action, but so far nothing was coming to him. Everything sounded wrong, wrong, _wrong_ – meaningless or irrelevant.

Vera was weary with his indecision also, glaring up from the ratty notepad in her lap. She said, "Why is this so difficult? Men must make all things complicated. Just be honest."

"Well, our history together is kind of complicated. Goes with the territory," America muttered. She was right, though. On working a solution, maybe he was overthinking matters. Jotting down a three-word sentence, he folded the page in half and handed it to her. "Er, you can translate it for me if you want, but he should understand."

Unabashed, Vera flipped the slip of paper open to read the script right there in the tent. She nodded. "No, this is suitable."

"Can you do me one last favor and find Major Williams for me, please? I know I'm due for another checkup here real soon, but I need to see him about something right away."

Nodding again, she left to find his twin. Canada returned in her place, seeming rushed and disheveled. "So, have you finally come to your senses?"

"Actually…" America said, flashing him his widest smile.  
  
  
  
  
The tent was muted at this hour. Most of the lights were set low to allow anyone needing sleep to rest accordingly. It was already dark outside, which helped America to relax his eyes. He had been doing nothing _but_ sleep for weeks and months and honestly was becoming annoyed with the entire affair.

America did understand its importance as a part of the recovery process, though, and removed his glasses. He threw his arm over his eyes to block out the tiny desk lamp Vera was using to read by. She'd volunteered to leave, but America was more tired of being alone than anything else. And while she would never admit it, he could tell Vera needed the distraction.

Heavy footfalls approached his side of the tent. He didn't remove his arm from his face at the pounding, nor did America move when someone new entered. The rustling Vera made getting up out of her chair and the soft whispers that ensued were sign enough of her leave-taking. It wasn't until there was a heavy dip on the side of his cot that America reached for his glasses.

Russia looked terrible. His jacket was torn at the hems and he was caked in mud up to his knees. He smelled like gunpowder and had layers of dark circles under his eyes. The only pristine thing about Russia's appearance was his scarf, which was folded and tucked under his uniform like a supersized cravat. Taking in the sight, America didn't hesitate to lift his arms open in invitation.

His cot was the right size for someone five-foot, but America was pushing five-foot-nine and Russia taller than that. There wasn't enough room for them both to lie down together, but somehow they made it work. America had to remain on his back, so Russia stayed half-sitting and leaned over to rest his upper body and head on his chest to avoid America's injured stump. He was out of energy to do anything save collapse on top of him. America hugged him twice as hard.

"Why'd you rush back, huh?" America asked.

"You send message that says 'I miss you'," Russia said, as if that explained everything. Maybe it kind of did.

"Yeah." America kept an arm tightly around his back, keeping him in place, while the other hand was careful to remove Russia's hat. He set it where he'd kept his glasses, on the tiny worktable posing as a nightstand. This allowed him to nuzzle the other country's hair like he'd been wanting to since the moment Russia entered the room.

"I thought you had already gone," Russia admitted.

"Is that why you were out there for so long?" At the question Russia buried his face deeper into his collarbone, but America wouldn't let him avoid the conversation. "Not that I'm opposed to, uh, your enthusiasm or anything? Give 'em the ol' one-two, I guess. I'd be doing the same if—"

"But you are _not_ ," Russia said. It left him taken aback.

"Dude, the landmine wasn't anyone's fault! Punishing someone won't change…this. You're just punishing yourself with how harsh you're pushing." He rubbed his thumb in soothing circles along Russia's back, but the contact made the other nation tense more. Or maybe it was his choice of words? _Another time, then_ , America determined and let the subject drop.

"By the way, I made Mattie see reason." Or more accurately he had compromised. America was loath to do it, but he wasn't incapable of discussion. Especially when the other party had him by the service release papers. Russia slid his cheek to stare skeptically up at him. Clearing his throat, America tried not to squirm.

"In another couple months I should be cleared to return for light duty. The Brass has agreed to start me in the control room, mess management – that kind of stuff." America shrugged, the effect lost given he was lying in bed with over two-hundred pounds of Russian muscle on top of him. "No field activity, but…I'll deal. So long as I can still help that's all I care about."

Russia seemed to mull it over. " _Mess_ _management?_ "

"Why'd you have to ask in that tone of voice, huh? I'll have you know an army marches on its stomach! It's kind of heroic, in its own way. Serving up justice— Are you _laughing?_ "

Russia totally was. If the softness of his laughter weren't enough audible evidence, then the rumbles traveling through Russia's chest and into America's own was. It could have been the hour or Russia's giggles were contagious, but he couldn't stay offended. He started to laugh, too.

"It… It is good that you will be staying on," he admitted, once their mirth subsided. "Someone must ensure you do not overexert yourself."

"Whatever, _nag_ ," America said. There wasn't any resentment behind it, although there maybe should have been.

"I speak of your sibling."

"Oh. Well. You could have a little more sympathy. The whole time Mattie and I outlined the conditions of my stay I could just _tell_ he was scheming all the different ways he is going to get back at me in physical therapy." America rambled on awhile longer about his future 'treatment' at his brother's hands before he got the impression he was talking to himself.

Brushing aside Russia's bangs he saw his eyes were closed. His breathing had evened out and it was then that America realized he was supporting the other nation's entire dead weight. He'd fallen asleep.

"You really did hurry back, didn't you?" he murmured. Smoothing Russia's hair, he ran his fingers along the curve of his bangs and tucked the longer strands behind his ear. Russia didn't stir at all. With his left hand America turned off the bedside light, plunging the space into darkness.  
  
  
  
  
"Goodnight, handsome."

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my [writing blog on Tumblr](http://snaurus.tumblr.com/) for more content or [come say hi to me on Twitter](https://twitter.com/snaurus)!


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